But in Derek it roused a peculiar feeling, such as a man might have gazing at the shores of a native country, out of which he had been thrown for no fault of his own--a yearning deeply muffled up in pride and resentment. Not infrequently he would come and sit brooding on the grassy hillock just above the churchyard. Church-going, with its pageantry, its tradition, dogma, and demand for blind devotion, would have suited him very well, if only blind devotion to his mother had not stood across that threshold; he could not bring himself to bow to that which viewed his rebellious mother as lost. And yet the deep fibres of heredity from her papistic Highland ancestors, and from old pious Moretons, drew him constantly to this spot at times when no one would be about. It was his enemy, this little church, the fold of all the instincts and all the qualities against which he had been brought up to rebel; the very home of patronage and property and superiority; the school where his friends the laborers were taught their place! And yet it had that queer, ironical attraction for him. In some such sort had his pet hero Montrose rebelled, and then been drawn despite himself once more to the side of that against which he had taken arms.
While he leaned against the rail, gazing at that ancient edifice, he saw a girl walk into the churchyard at the far end, sit down on a gravestone, and begin digging a little hole in the grass with the toe of her boot. She did not seem to see him, and at his ease he studied her face, one of those broad, bright English country faces with deep-set rogue eyes and red, thick, soft lips, smiling on little provocation. In spite of her disgrace, in spite of the fact that she was sitting on her mother's grave, she did not look depressed. And Derek thought: 'Wilmet Gaunt is the jolliest of them all! She isn't a bit a bad girl, as they say; it's only that she must have fun. If they drive her out of here, she'll still want fun wherever she is; she'll go to a town and end up like those girls I saw in Bristol.' And the memory of those night girls, with their rouged faces and cringing boldness, came back to him with horror.
He went across the grass toward her.
She looked round as he came, and her face livened.
"Well, Wilmet?"
"You're an early bird, Mr. Derek."
"Haven't been to bed."
"Oh!"
"Been up Malvern Beacon to see the sun rise."
"You're tired, I expect!"
"No."
"Must be fine up there. You'd see a long ways from there; near to London I should think. Do you know London, Mr. Derek?"
"No."
"They say 'tis a funny place, too." Her rogue eyes gleamed from under a heavy frown. "It'd not be all 'Do this' an' 'Do that'; an' 'You bad girl' an' 'You little hussy!' in London. They say there's room for more'n one sort of girl there."
"All towns are beastly places, Wilmet."
Again her rogue's eyes gleamed. "I don' know so much about that, Mr. Derek. I'm going where I won't be chivied about and pointed at, like what I am here."
"Your dad's stuck to you; you ought to stick to him."
"Ah, Dad! He's losin' his place for me, but that don't stop his tongue at home. 'Tis no use to nag me--nag me. Suppose one of m'lady's daughters had a bit of fun--they say there's lots as do--I've heard tales--there'd be none comin' to chase her out of her home. 'No, my girl, you can't live here no more, endangerin' the young men. You go away. Best for you's where they'll teach you to be'ave. Go on! Out with you! I don't care where you go; but you just go!' 'Tis as if girls were all pats o' butter--same square, same pattern on it, same weight, an' all."
Derek had come closer; he put his hand down and gripped her arm.
Her eloquence dried up before the intentness of his face, and she just stared up at him.
"Now, look here, Wilmet; you promise me not to scoot without letting us know. We'll get you a place to go to. Promise."
A little sheepishly the rogue-girl answered:
"I promise; only, I'm goin'."
Suddenly she dimpled and broke into her broad smile.
"Mr. Derek, d'you know what they say--they say you're in love. You was seen in th' orchard. Ah! 'tis all right for you and her! But if any one kiss and hug ME, I got to go!"
Derek drew back among the graves, as if he had been struck with a whip.
She looked up at him with coaxing sweetness.
"Don't you mind me, Mr. Derek, and don't you stay here neither. If they saw you here with me, they'd say: 'Aw--look! Endangerin' another young man--poor young man!' Good mornin', Mr. Derek!"
The rogue eyes followed him gravely, then once more began examining the grass, and the toe of her boot again began kicking a little hole. But Derek did not look back.
